


The Way We Were

by Lasgalendil



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: I Will Go Down With This Ship, M/M, One True Pairing, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 18:06:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4359014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lasgalendil/pseuds/Lasgalendil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Elf loves Dwarf.<br/>Dwarf loves Elf.</p>
<p>...wherein much needed conversations happen. Almost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way We Were

My Elf, it must be said, is not the most knowledgable about these things.

Never kissed, never fucked before he met me. Mahal’s balls, centuries old and never even bloody touched himself. Didn’t even know about fucking—least not between two men. Thought fucking would give us a child. Asked him for his mouth that first night in Lórien, and he asked me—

[Sodding Elf and his bloody ears and combing.]  
[Damned Elves.]

…he asked me, ever-so-sweetly and confused, his perfect lower lip worried between his teeth, “I—I _bite_ it?”

[It was awhile before this Dwarf tried that again.]

Born to Elves. Raised among Elves. Far as I can tell he’s one of the youngest. His kind—even his wild Wood Elves, it appears—just don’t. Durin’s beard it’s a shame! One as beautiful as he is ought to be kissed, fucked, loved. And often.

[And by a Dwarf who knows how.]

He is, however, an ardent lover. Rapt student. Bloody Elf went from not knowing anything to knowing just how to move himself, arch back against me, grind hips against mine, how to clench that tight arse around me and just hold. How to climb on top of me, lower himself down around me, take me up deep inside him and fuck himself senseless while I only watch. How to take my cock, my nipples into his mouth just like he would my ears and suck, kiss, lick, and worry until I spilled inside or against him.

Oh, he will not tease, he will not play games—try as I might he will not play games—he would never approve of another joining us in our bed (for as much he does not mind any watching or overhearing. Bloody weird Elves.), would die of a broken heart to find I had strayed from ours, has absolutely outlawed anything else—no cock rings, no nipple clamps, nothing inside him save my cock, fingers and tongue—mirrors make him grimace and hide beneath blankets, and the idea of piercing himself sends him shivering. He will not fuck me—tried a few times, when I asked him, seemed a bit shocked, couldn’t make him hard, didn’t last long enough, still rather embarrassed by the whole thing, best not to bring it up. He’s not a Dwarf. He’s an Elf. Not voracious, not lusting, simply willing. Oh, he can—and does!—get aroused when I am loving him, but it is not a feeling he will miss.

[It seems, at least, to be some consolation.]  
[When I am dead or old, unable to fuck him.]  
[He may miss me, but he will not miss this.]  
[Fuck him now. Fuck him well. Fuck him while I can. Mahal only knows how long I’ll be stuck in the Halls or Void with no Elven arse or lips to suck me.]

He enjoys our lovemaking for what it is—the two of us. How a Dwarf shows love. Nothing more.

Ask him what he wants. Doesn’t understand the question. And when he does, it’s combing. Just combing. Always bloody combing. And the bloody stupid creature will try to comb me.

“Fuck’s sake, Elf!” I’ve said a thousand times. “I just want to please you!”

“It pleases me to please you.”

“Daft, sodding Elf!” I try not to shout. “Don’t you—can’t say—people think—“

“People think what?” he wonders.

Can’t look at him. In my heart I know it’s true. “People already think I don’t treat you well.”

[I haven’t.]  
[Not always.]

He laughs. Thranduillion, indeed. “If you mean those Noldor, then I do not care. I am a Wood Elf. I belong to myself. I do not answer to Kin-slayers. If you mean these Men, I do not care. They will soon die—what of them? Let them laugh. If you mean my Silvans, then you know they would have killed you already if they thought this was so. If you mean your Dwarves, then they have misread the beads in my hair and the braids you give me every morning, the jewels and clothing I am adorned with. If people think thus, then they are either fools or blind. Elf, Man, or Dwarf—I will not worry myself with them.” He tells me. “And you must do the same.”

“Not all of us are bloody Elves.” Some of us—one of us, surely!—is a Dwarf, must look to the future, must worry what others think.

[So many. So many others.]  
[Gondor and Rohan. Umbar, Harad and Rhûn.]  
[Longbeards. Firebeards. Ironfists. Stiffbeards. Stonefoots. Blacklocks.]  
[His Silvans. His Sindar. Galadhrim. Those Mahal-damned Noldor.]  
[I am the King’s Emissary. I must worry what they all think.]

“I had thought,” he finally says. “I had thought that—that after—that we would travel.”

“Aye, Elf.” I say. “We did. For a time.” From Fanghorn to his Greenwood, onwards to the River Running, the Long Lake, the rebuilding of Esgaroth, Dale, and finally Erebor. Took our bloody time, too.

…but not enough.  
[Never enough.]

“Never did fuck you on that Horse.” I grunt. Always meant to. Still do.

[Durin’s beard, I still do!]

Eyes narrow. Head cocks. Ears twitch. Bloody, fucking Elf doesn’t know if I’m serious or not. “I am an Elf. A Wood Elf. I—we—do not plan so well as, as Dwarves or Men. I did not know—I did not think—it would be thus.”

“Aye, Elf. Truth be told, me neither.” Had no idea the bloody Stonehelm would ask me to come back here. Had planned on it anyway, rebuild some gates, walls, if I felt like it, perhaps Osgiliath or Cirith Ungol, travel East and make damned well certain the last dungeons of Barad-dûr had been destroyed.

…I didn’t ask him. I never bloody asked him.

“This life,” my Elf tries to ask me. “This…now. You like it, yes?”

Like it? Loud, sunny city of Men. Political intrigue. No noise control. No proper sewers. Gondorians, Rohirrim, Easterlings, Southrons. Seven bloody clans to keep happy, seven bloody pages to keep busy, a lonely Elf who sits home all day, waiting, waiting for me…and papers. Papers, papers, fucking papers. Papers to read. Letters to write. Seals to stamp. Reports to review. Figures to count. I am Gimli Gloin’sson, a Dwarf of many journeys, of the Nine Companions of Frodo the Ring-Bearer and now here in my prime I find my life is nothing more than bloody book-keeping.

“Like it, you stupid Elf?” I ask him. “I fucking hate it. Rather be out. Out traveling. Out with you.” Out in the wild. Even Erebor—lovely as it is—has never felt like home.

“But my Gimli, then why?” he wonders. “Why do you stay?”

[I wonder that myself.]  
[Wonder often.]

“You are an Elf,” I try to explain. “A Wood Elf. It is different—with you. For you. It is different. But I am a Dwarf, and when my King asks, when my King commands…well, there are some summons one cannot disobey. You are a Wood Elf. You would not understand.”

“I am a Wood Elf. I do not deny this. But this, this task, this—this work?—it is because you are the only your King can trust to do so. You have brought peace—if only too late, and only for a little while—between our two peoples and many more. You are not so selfish as you believe yourself to be, _Gil-cefn-nîn_ , gold has no power over you. So I say to you again: it pleases me to please you,” he kisses my hands, takes fingertips into his hot, sweet mouth. “This night. How do you want me?”

I would argue. Make my point. There is so much I wish to teach him, show him, words to say the things he wants, would teach him how to touch himself the way he touches me, would take him in my mouth, inside me, if he would only learn to let me, to like it…there is still so much I would like to give, rather than simply take from him.

…But he is an Elf. And this is how he, at least, loves.

“Bloody, fucking Elf. Stupid, singing Elf,” I sigh. “Fine. Comb me if you must.”


End file.
